


It's a question of balance (answer: I find my equilibrium in you)

by lesyeuxverts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come play, Communication, Dirty Talk, Greg is a gentleman, John is the only possible source of medical information, M/M, Mycroft has some issues, Possessiveness, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/pseuds/lesyeuxverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg squinted at his glass, trying to remember. "Once ... maybe twice ... a month or so – something like that?"</p>
<p>John looked at him. "Once or twice a month," he said, and even though it didn't seem to be a question, Greg nodded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a question of balance (answer: I find my equilibrium in you)

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely, absolutely, absolutely mean no offense to yoga, macrobiotic diets, chakras, etc. – I'm afraid that I've just abused them as a convenient plot device here, so mea culpa for that. 
> 
> Also, apologies for any mistakes, as this was written rather quickly and I was having tense problems here and there – I think I've caught them all, but feel free to point out those or any other mistakes if you find them!

Greg snapped when Mycroft was in a particularly flexy, twisted position, both legs over his head. "Damn it, Mycroft, can't we at least _talk_ about this–"

Mycroft looked between his legs at him, one eyebrow arched. "I hardly think so – I've three meetings scheduled after this, an appointment with my secretary, and some paperwork to wrap up."

He switched to another position with the ease that had so impressed Greg, the first time he saw Mycroft doing this. Yoga – of all the things to come between them. "Right," he said, staring at the floor.

Mycroft had the look of inner peace that meant all his chakras were aligned, or something like that. And ... Greg was a fool for thinking it'd be any different if he asked again.

Mycroft said, his voice taking on the gentle tone he used when Greg was upset, "Why don't you go down to the pub and have a bit of fun?"

Right, because step one of Mycroft's life reforms had been the decision to set aside jealousy and other poisonous emotions. Greg didn't doubt that if he went down to the pub and went on the pull, virtuous Mycroft wouldn't even look at the CCTV footage.

He was a bad person to be resentful of his ... Mycroft's self-improvement, but all the same, he'd preferred it if Mycroft were jealous and possessive and ... interested in staking his claim on Greg.

The offer of an open relationship, Greg was convinced, had less to do with balanced chi and more to do with Mycroft's general insecurity and self-esteem issues.

"No," he said, but he rose and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "I might go for a pint with John, though."

This was the new Greg, assuring Mycroft through unspoken ways that he wasn't interested in straying, that Mycroft _was_ more than enough for him. He usually didn't need to say anything, but ... Well. Things were different.

"Have fun," Mycroft said, switching into another stretch.

Greg didn't let himself think that it was Mycroft who was different, that he much preferred the old version of him. That wasn't the point and wasn't helpful at all.

John was half-way through his pint by the time Greg got there. He clapped a hand on John's shoulder and steered him away from the bar and into a quiet corner.

"Something on your mind, then?" John asked when they were settled in.

"Applying Sherlock's methods, yeah?" Greg didn't tease him for it – they both knew he was right.

"As... As a medical man, John..." Greg wasn't sure how to ease into the conversation. "Is too much sex ... Well, is it somehow unhealthy? Does it … imbalance the body?"

John didn't spit out his ale, but it looked like a close call.

"Err..."

It took a minute, but then Greg saw the switch from John-the-mate to John-the-doctor. Mostly, at least. "I'm not saying I want any details about what you and Mycroft get up to, mind, but ... How often are we talking about?"

Greg squinted at his glass, trying to remember. "Once ... maybe twice ... a month or so – something like that?"

John looked at him. "Once or twice a month," he said, and even though it didn't seem to be a question, Greg nodded.

"About that, yeah. I mean, before ... With Mycroft's schedule, and mine ... You know how it is."

John wasn't looking at him, and there was something of the soldier, stepping around landmines, in the set of his shoulders. "And ... are things okay between the two of you, outside of the bedroom? No ... relationship stress?"

"Not really, no. Nothing more than the usual – you know – schedules. But he's gone a bit health-mad – yoga and whatnot – I can't keep track of his diets, never could, but those, too."

"Is there anything ..." John hesitated, then plunged on, "...physically wrong?"

Greg hesitated, too, but shook his head. "I don't think so... He's fine when we actually... He just says that having sex too often upsets the balance of the body. I thought – well, maybe it does?"

He'd started to regret asking John – this was as personal as it got, really, and he wasn't sure Mycroft would appreciate this level of disclosure. But Google hadn't come up with any helpful answers, and asking his own GP was straight out. Greg couldn't imagine making an appointment for something like this, much less actually _asking_ the man about this. 

John shook his head and downed the rest of his beer. "I'm not saying that it's impossible to have too much sex – I mean, if you've gotten to the point where things are, well, physically uncomfortable, then – yeah. But you guys are nowhere near that, obviously. You're – Christ," he said. 

"Christ," again, and John was clearly trying to be professional – _was_ being professional, and Greg didn't like to hear him swearing, didn't like to think what that meant about the situation. "You haven't been together for all that long, I'd think – sorry. Normally, in a relationship, I'd think you'd still be … well, honeymoon phase, really. Going at it like rabbits. It's not … well, every relationship is different, obviously, and…" He trailed off, clearly lapsing back into professional-and-nonjudgmental John.

"So it doesn't – unbalance things?"

John eyed his empty glass and then stole the rest of Greg's pint. "You owe me for this," he said when Greg tried to grab the glass back. "I … well, I guess at this point I'm not willing to make too many judgments on what is and is not normal when it comes to a Holmes. But for normal people … no. Absolutely not."

Greg got in another round, using the break to think it over. He hadn't thought it was true – sounded like the sort of thing that more people would know about, if it was. Sounded more like Sherlock's attitude toward food and sleep than anything else, really, and wouldn't he be upset to know that he and Mycroft were at all alike.

"Cheers," John said, clinking his glass against Greg's. "So … he's on a health kick, diet and yoga. And he thinks that–"

"That having too much sex puts the body out of balance, somehow. I don't know. He was going on about yin-yang and macrobiotics and … to be honest, I don't remember. I tried, but I didn't really follow."

_As usual,_ or _three steps behind him_ , Greg didn't say – that would have felt like a betrayal, even though John would've understood.

"Something about the body and its humours, maybe," he admitted. "Sounded positively Victorian, or something."

John snorted. "There's Mycroft for you."

Two pints in, it was getting easier to talk about it. John – of all the people in the world, John was the only other one who lived with a Holmes brother and had a chance of understanding. 

"It's not – it's not that I want to do it, if he doesn't. I mean. I would never force him, or anything. Never do that. It's just…"

He stared at the tiny bubbles in his ale, rising inevitably to the top of the glass. "It's just, you know. When we're … _together_ … well, I guess I feel like he's focused on me for once. Not like dinner when he's on the phone with Anthea halfway through or breakfast while he's reading the newspaper or – or anything like that. I just…"

Greg felt pretty pathetic, admitting it. Next thing he knew, he'd be telling John about Mycroft's offer – and how tempting it was, sometimes. Sometimes late at night when the other half of the bed was cold and he wanted to be touched, held, kissed–

He wanted to _feel_ – was that somehow a betrayal? Wanting? When he'd been given some sort of strange permission – but no, _that_ wasn't what he wanted. He wanted _Mycroft_.

"I went into it, eyes open," he told John. "Nobody better than a copper to know – schedules, they don't always work out. Plenty of nights where you fall into bed and are too tired to sleep, let alone anything else. But…"

"But this is different," John said. He hadn't touched his glass in a while – he pushed it across the bar, swapping it for Greg's empty one. "And you shouldn't feel – well, you should know that … well. It's normal to want to use sex to connect with your partner."

"Yes. Well. He doesn't."

They were silent for a while, and then John rose and brought back another round. It was more than Greg should be drinking on a Thursday night – early meeting tomorrow, the possibility of dealing with Sherlock always on the horizon – but somehow he didn't object. 

"You've … talked about it with him? Not to sound like an agony aunt, Greg, but … maybe you should let him know how you feel."

Talking about emotions with Mycroft Holmes didn't go well at the best of times, and Greg was shaking his head before John finished his sentence. It was fine – it was all fine – he knew that Mycroft cared, in his way, and Mycroft knew the same, and they'd never had to talk about it. It wasn't – it wasn't what they did. 

"He won't talk about it. Just the one conversation, and … well, and being put off, the one time I tried to … and I asked him tonight if we could talk about it, but…" Greg let his thought trail off and then shook his head again.

"Ah." John cleared his throat. "Well, you could…" He looked around, and then made a discreet hand gesture. "Take care of things yourself?"

Greg snorted. "What do you think I've been _doing_ all this time?"

They both laughed, and it was fine. It was _fine_.

It wasn't that he minded – like he'd said, they had very different schedules. Mycroft had set down the law, early on, and now Anthea – or whatever her name was – and what did it say about Greg's life, that he didn't have the security clearance to know his … Mycroft's secretary's name? – Anthea made sure that their schedules aligned for dinner together at least three times a week. 

After dinner, though, Mycroft would go back to the office or take a phone call, Greg would take care of his paperwork or be called off to a crime scene – they were both busy. It wasn't anybody's fault, it just happened. 

It just happened that Mycroft now preferred yoga to screwing, whenever they did see each other, and … well, Greg just had to learn to accept it.

John cut him off after that – saying that he had an early day at the surgery – and they walked to the Tube together. 

"Have you," John said, and then stopped. "Have you … this might not be your thing, but … have you thought about taking up yoga? Doing it with him? It'd be … it'd be a way to connect, at least. Focus on the same thing together."

Greg snorted. "Have you seen the positions he twists himself into? I don't think I was that flexible when I was _young_. I'm an old man, John, take pity on me. I don't think I can…"

"A beginner's class," John said. "You wouldn't have to do it in front of him, at least not at first, if you weren't comfortable with it. You could work up to that, wait until you're ready."

It was something to think about, at least – and anyhow, talking to John about it _had_ helped. And in the meantime … well, John was right, he certainly could take care of it himself. 

Greg clapped him on the shoulder as they parted after the automatic ticket barriers, the two of them heading in opposite directions. 

"Thanks, John. You're a good mate."

*****

Mycroft had managed to make it through lunch without thinking of any of the things that he wasn't supposed to eat – his body his temple, master of his mind, mind over matter, et cetera. If he had been a sentimental man, he would have added something about keeping his body in perfect condition for Greg.

(It had to be for Greg – Mycroft might disagree with his brother on many points, but Sherlock was largely correct when he dismissed the body as transport. Not completely correct, because the mind was part of the body and relied upon it, but – more or less accurate. The appearance of the body was unimportant as long as the mind was functioning at top capacity.)

Nonetheless, since he _had_ done so well, and since he did have fifteen spare minutes between meetings, he allowed himself to indulge in his one remaining vice – watching Greg. The connection afforded by CCTV footage wasn't the same as being with him in person, but Mycroft was practical and had learned to make do. 

Balance in all things, after all. He would see his … Gregory at dinner that evening. (The fact that they neither of them had found the correct noun for this was one of the things that troubled Mycroft – he'd heard Greg introduce him as "my … Mycroft," and while he understood the reasoning, it somehow didn't help the two of them fit together any better than they had before, when Greg used to introduce him as "Mr. Mycroft Holmes" and without blushing or stammering. Still, he quite _liked_ being Gregory's Mycroft, and liked the look on Greg's face when he said it.)

So, while having access to the CCTV footage was not the same as having Gregory's undivided attention, Mycroft would at least have that for fifteen minutes, and it would be … enough. 

Balance in all things, after all. His secretary had instituted the concept, _work-life balance_ , when the three-dinners-a-week rule was established, and it had worked very well in that case. Balance, and moderation, and avoiding Sherlock and his spiteful comments about yo-yo dieting and cake. 

Gregory was in his office, just visible from the corridor camera if angled correctly, as Mycroft could have guessed – knowing his schedule, that it was lunchtime, that he preferred the classic cheddar and tomato sandwich from Pret when he had paperwork to do, and that there would be a mug of milky tea at his right elbow, far enough from the paperwork to keep it out of the danger zone. 

(People were predictable and Greg was one of them, so Greg was predictable, too. But Greg was – somehow, unpredictably – attracted to Mycroft and not bothered by his schedule, and he was calm and competent and independent and good. In his case, Mycroft has found that that he _liked_ knowing where Greg will he and what he will be eating for lunch.)

Except… Greg shifted in his chair, and _that_ was something that Mycroft would not have predicted, something that he'd never noticed about Greg before. 

Watching the footage, he thought – maybe – and then Greg stood, crossed the room to the filing cabinet, and Mycroft could tell from the way he walked that he was right. Greg was using a butt plug. 

It sounded – dirty, almost wrong, to be thinking that about Gregory. That he should be – Mycroft shifted in his chair, noting the way the first symptoms of arousal had crept up on him. He has been thinking _so clearly_ …

He knew that he should stop, but the twin urges of curiosity (Greg had never shown an interest in anything like this before) and desire (though he knew he shouldn't feel this now) kept him watching for the full fifteen minutes. It was, after all, the full length of time that he'd promised himself.

(If he were to abandon the idea of balance, if he were to let himself want more – he'd take too much. He'd want _all_ of Gregory, all of him, and that wouldn't be good or healthy for either of them. No – balance was best.)

Still. Even though Mycroft _knew_ that he should keep himself from wanting, from taking too much, all throughout dinner he kept watching Gregory, the way he moved, the way he shifted. He wanted to know why Gregory would have chosen to do such a thing – to use such a thing – and a secret, shameful part of Mycroft wanted to see it. 

Greg shifted his weight in his chair and started mangling the asparagus on his plate. (He'd made it clear, early into this, that he wasn't a fan of thinking about yin and yang before he ate, and while he'd put up with a lot, the macrobiotic diet was a Step Too Far. They'd managed to compromise, and Mycroft – well. His doctor assured him that his weight was well within normal parameters, which he took to indicate some sort of tedious average sampling of a probably-representative part of the population, which in the end was meant to convey something about him.)

"I was thinking," he said, and Mycroft snapped to attention, because the hesitancy in his voice was new. Not something that he'd heard before. He watched Greg – the hesitancy meant that he wasn't sure if he should bring it up or not, he didn't know if Mycroft would like what he heard, he wasn't confident in this the way he was in so many other things. "I was … that is, John suggested … I mean. Yoga? He found a beginner's class that I could try."

His secretary had reported Greg disappeared from the CCTV footage for an hour or two this evening – Mycroft hadn't let himself think about it. If Greg chose – what Greg chose was his own business, and Mycroft had tried to make it clear to him that–

"So I checked it out today, just to watch for a little bit. I don't know … I didn't want to say. I mean, it might not be my thing at all. But if you … if it was the kind of thing that you wanted to do together, then – someday, maybe, we could…"

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, and Greg, doubtless remembering how much he disliked vacillating and stammering, fell silent. "I … sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Mycroft said. His mind was ticking faster than an overwound clock. "But you needn't think, or feel obliged, to do this."

"It could be something for us to do together," was all Greg said, spreading his hands. They hovered there for a minute, palms up, and Mycroft wanted to touch him so _badly_ –

He gave into the impulse, leaning across the table and pressing both of his hands against Gregory's. "Thank you," he said. "I think you will enjoy it – the serenity attained by–"

He stopped, and thought about what he wanted to say, and concluded that very little of it had anything to do with yoga. 

"Gregory, if I might ask – please understand that you are under no obligation to answer – why on earth are you wearing a butt plug?"

Greg spat a mouthful of red wine out over his plate and the white tablecloth. Some of it landed on Mycroft's hands, and the next few minutes were a flurry of apologies and Greg patting his hands dry with a clean napkin. 

"Sorry," he said with a grin – the same charming grin that had first made Mycroft notice him. "But blow me, if that isn't a sentence I never thought I'd hear you say."

"I–"

"I like it," Greg said, grasping Mycroft's hands again. "I've … missed … doing some things with you, and you've made it clear that you don't want … and I _respect_ that, of course I do, and I know you don't want to talk about it. But – since you asked – well. I've missed the feeling of … being full, feeling stretched, all of that. This is just … a way to feel like that. Without making you do anything that makes you feel–"

"But you – in front of everyone, all day–"

Greg smiled, and it was that dark delicious smile that made Mycroft think wicked thoughts. (He did not want to think those thoughts now – he _must not_ – should not.) "I'm not saying that I'd like _you_ to take me in front of everyone like that, love. But no one knew – apart from you and your sneaky little cameras, of course."

"So you used it because you wanted me to see–"

"No," Greg said immediately, his hands still warm around Mycroft's. "Knew you probably would end up seeing, but that couldn't be helped. If you'd seen me after, after I'd taken it out, you'd have known anyhow … deduced it, I mean. I knew you'd end up knowing about it, one way or the other, and I don't _mind_ that you know, but I didn't do it as some sort of way to trick you into thinking about sex or wanting it."

There was more, Mycroft was certain, but he drew Greg to his feet and into a kiss, shutting off the rest of his speech about respecting Mycroft's boundaries and not wanting to pressure him into anything, but wanting all the same to have sexual release. Mycroft found that he wanted it too. He pulled Greg closer, until they were pressed together, and let him feel the growing hardness at Mycroft's groin. 

"Mycroft–"

"I've changed my mind," Mycroft said, his voice almost a whisper as he worked his way through a line of kisses ending at Greg's earlobe. "You impossible, lovely, wonderful man."

(There could be no question of balance or boundaries when confronted with a man like Greg, but somehow – somehow, Mycroft thought, that was all right. He had the feeling that he could say to Greg that he'd also been wrong about offering him an open relationship, that he wanted him, that he wanted to be the only one to touch him, that he wanted to be Greg's Mycroft, his everything – and that Greg, somehow, illogical charming lovely Greg, would take it in stride and make it all right.)

"You're thinking about something," Greg said, stroking his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Is it–"

"Not important now," Mycroft said. He peeled himself away from Greg – reluctantly – and pulled him towards the stairs. Time enough later to tell Greg everything he'd been wrong about, everything he'd misunderstood. "Now – _Greg_."

It was a blur, pulling Greg up the stairs and into the bedroom and spreading him out on the bed. Stripping him, undoing his tie and peeling away the layers and finally, finally, pulling down his pants and seeing the plug. Mycroft reached to touch it, and Greg moaned. 

"Oh god," he said. "Have you used one before?"

"No." He prodded it, rotated it a bit, mapped Greg's responses and then leaned up, kissed him through his moans. "You like it," he said, a little breathless.

"Love it," Greg said. "Oh god. I'd let you … I'd let you anything."

"Anything?" Mycroft said. The trick was to draw him out, to make him say it, to make Greg admit that he wanted it first – somehow, that, here, _him_ made what would otherwise have made Mycroft feel dirty-wrong-shameful-squirming – made it all right. Better than all right. Because it was Gregory.

(He was aware, part of his mind, that this fracturing of speech and grammar and coherency was why he had wanted to avoid this, why he wanted to – it was too late to draw back from this, from Gregory, it always was too late, and Mycroft found, really, that he didn't _want_ to. He wanted this.)

"What would you want me to do?"

"Fuck me," Greg said, half a plea and half an answer. "I'd want you to – oh, that, there, please – I'd want you to fuck me, fill me with your come, and then put it in – I'd wear it, and keep your come inside me all day."

Mycroft grew somehow, impossibly, harder at the thought. "And you'd come home and I'd take the plug out and I'd fuck you again. No one would know but you would be mine, you'd be mine and I'd have taken you, and–"

He had no words for it. He reached for Gregory, hoping for words, hoping for something to carry him through this, this torrent-deluge of feeling. 

Greg mashed their lips together, kissing him through it, and it was rough and it was wonderful and it was what he needed. He pressed Mycroft down against the bed, against the cool smooth duvet, against the pillows, and rose over him and then down onto him and then they slid together, Greg fucking himself on Mycroft's cock. It was – it was too good for words. 

"Oh," Mycroft said, helpless. "Oh–"

"Oh god," Greg said. He reached down, stroking his own cock, and Mycroft realized belatedly that he should be doing that, he should be touching Greg, and he reached for him. Their fingers tangled together, and it felt good, better than good, to be touching Greg this way, to be touching him–

"I would want to try it too," he said, his voice coming out as a high thin sliver of sound. "Wear it all day, and in meetings, and I'd have a bit of you – I'd keep a bit of you with me, and come home to you, and–"

"Fuck," Greg said. "Fuck, the thought of you, coming home after that, ready for me, I'd just slide into you, so easy, take you, fuck you, oh god."

They had lost control, both of them, and their movements were sloppy and uncoordinated, Mycroft's hips jerking upwards and Greg's hand stuttering as he stroked his prick and it didn't matter, it was glorious and unrestrained and it didn't matter. Mycroft had lost control, well and truly, and found in the heat of the moment that it didn't matter that he had lost it.

They lay together, afterwards, some of Gregory's come cooling on Mycroft's chest in spite of a half-hearted swipe with the pillowcase. (He found that he liked the thought of it being there, a reminder of him, something to carry with him, something of Greg.)

"You're … sure you're okay with this?" Greg had pulled Mycroft firmly toward him so that they were lying together, limbs entangled. Mycroft's breathing had slowed to its normal resting pace and so had Greg's, but their hearts were still beating a little faster than usual. He found his thoughts reforming along their usual lines, coherency regained and his equilibrium reestablished.

"I … perfect," he said, and rested his head against Greg's shoulder. It was perhaps too soon to tell him that it had never been like this, before, not during their handful of previous couplings, their first fumblings, or Mycroft's few furtive affairs. It was perhaps too soon to tell him, but one of these days, Mycroft would do. (One of these days, Mycroft thought, he would give everything and all that he was to Gregory, and take and receive all of Gregory in return – he was starting to understand that it was possible, that it would not be the loss of control, the surrender that he had feared. He no longer knew why he had feared this. He has been disassembled and reassembled and made new, and it was somehow, with Gregory here, all right.)

"Perfect," he said again, and kissed Gregory's collarbone.

*****

The pub was crowded, and this time, it was John who pulled Greg into a quiet corner. "So?" he said, once they were well through their first pints and into the second. "Are things … okay?"

Greg smiled and stretched, hoping that Mycroft was somewhere watching, catching the movement of his body and interpreting it correctly. "Things are … great," he said, his smile deepening into a grin. 

"Thanks for recommending the yoga, by the way," he said. "It's come in handy – it's useful, you know, to be that … flexible."

John spluttered and smiled and waved him to silence. "All right, all right, forget I asked, okay? I just wanted to make sure that you two were doing all right, not … not hear all the details!"

"John," Greg said. "You don't know the half of them – but don't worry. Mycroft doesn't share." And neither will he.


End file.
